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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28225164">over the ground lies a mantle of white</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy'>portraitofemmy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magicians (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day), Snow, parenting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:35:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,677</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28225164</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Snow in Fillory is a rare thing.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>When it comes, if it comes at all, it’s a light dusting, more a whimsical powdered sugar coating on the world than any kind of real deluge. It’s light enough to be swept off the mosaic with a broom, to be kept at bay from the cottage with a couple simple warming charms. It’s nice to look at, but almost never lasts past noon, disappearing with the warmth of the sun moving overhead. In their fifteen years in Fillory never had snow been more than a minor inconvenience.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Then, in the winter of the second year in the reign of High King Marcus The Unrelenting, three days from the Mid-Winter Festival, they awake to two feet of snow.</i>
</p>
<p>Or, the story of Teddy Coldwater-Waugh's first Christmas.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>144</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>over the ground lies a mantle of white</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy holidays, everyone! This is my gift to you all, Magicians Fandom, for whom I am so grateful and feel so lucky to have. Truly, I'm continually emo about this little fandom that could, and I'm so glad to get to share stories with you. May your mid-winter celebration of choice bring you warmth and light in this dark year. </p>
<p>Big, huge thank you hugs to both <b>propinquitous</b> and <b>hoko_onchi</b> for cheerleading and beta reading.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Snow in Fillory is a rare thing.</p>
<p>When it comes, if it comes at all, it’s a light dusting, more a whimsical powdered sugar coating on the world than any kind of real deluge. It’s light enough to be swept off the mosaic with a broom, to be kept at bay from the cottage with a couple simple warming charms. It’s nice to look at, but almost never lasts past noon, disappearing with the warmth of the sun moving overhead. In their fifteen years in Fillory never had snow been more than a minor inconvenience.</p>
<p>Then, in the winter of the second year in the reign of High King Marcus The Unrelenting, three days from the Mid-Winter Festival, they awake to two feet of snow.</p>
<p>Well, they actually wake up to Teddy, bursting into the room shouting “<em>Snow! </em>Snow, snow snow! Wake up!” but there’s slightly less romanticism in that.</p>
<p>Groggily, Eliot peers up at the child standing next to his bed and definitely doesn’t remotely contemplate murder because he loves his son very much, thank you. </p>
<p>“Ted, the sun’s not even up yet,” he gets out, which is more comprehensible than whatever garbled nonsense is coming out of Quentin’s mouth behind him. Q’s snuggled in like a warm little backpack, cold nose against the knobs of Eliot’s spine, one hand tucked under the waistband of Eliot’s sleep pants beneath their three layers of blankets, and Eliot spares a moment to think longingly of the days when he could take full advantage of Quentin’s tendency to burrow while sleeping. </p>
<p>“But there’s snow,” Teddy says, in that voice that says clearly that Eliot’s an idiot who’s missing something obvious. Who could he possibly have learned that from?</p>
<p>A single, long sigh braces Eliot up against the cold, then he’s rolling away from the warmth of his partner and the bed they share, swinging his legs out into the bite of the morning. “Okay, buddy, let’s go.”</p>
<p>The door to Ted’s room, which had once been a storage closet but has since been magically expanded into an extra dimensional space fit to comfortably house an independent seven year old, is left wide open. Eliot can picture it in his mind, Teddy bursting out of the room and rushing to the window, heedless of the path of the destruction he’s leaving behind. The excitement hasn’t abated even a little, if the tugging on his hand is anything to go by. </p>
<p>“C’mon, Papa, you’ve got to see,” Teddy’s insisting urgently, and Eliot’s still mostly asleep but he allows himself to be tugged over to the window to look out at—</p>
<p><em>Holy fuck</em>.</p>
<p>“Snow!” Teddy says, excitedly, tugging on Eliot’s hand again. </p>
<p>Which, yeah, that’s something of an understatement. Even in the dim dawn light, he can see that the trees that make up the border to their little slice of the world are hanging heavily, not picturquestly dusted with a fluff, but positively weighed down with a thick layer of heavy snow. The poor daybed offers  the best metric for just how much had come down over night, boasting a good two-foot build up on its surface. It’s like the mosaic itself doesn’t exist, any indication of its presence lost to the thick blanket of snow covering the ground. Their worktable is laughably smothered, the ladder standing out tall in the landscape with snow built up on its rungs. </p>
<p>The whole forest has a kind of muffled silence to it, thick and heavy, a sense of quiet and calm that would be unsettling if it weren’t somehow deeply familiar. Memory stirs deep in Eliot, memories that he’s intentionally buried, kicked, beaten and sometimes drunk into submission: the still of snow across the fields, the warmth of the farmhouse, the false promise of refuge it offered. </p>
<p>He’d always liked being out in the snow better.</p>
<p>“Wow,” Eliot says, looking down at Teddy’s bright, eager face. A familiar gut-deep twist of protectiveness knots up behind Eliot’s breastbone, the way it always does when he looks at Teddy and thinks of his own childhood, the silent promise he makes over and over: <em>Your life will be nothing like my life</em>. “You weren’t kidding. There’s a heck of a lot of snow out here.”</p>
<p>“Can we go play in it?” Teddy asks, nearly bouncing on his toes, and, well—</p>
<p>Eliot should probably say, not yet, be responsible, get some food in them or wait until things have started to melt, but. He always loved this when he was Ted’s age, the special feeling of going outside in the pristine snow before the sun rose, before anyone else was stirring the farm house. “Sure, why not,” he’s saying before he’s really given himself permission to. “Let’s figure out some kind of snow clothes situation; then we can go play.”</p>
<p>Luckily, they’d bought Ted a bigger coat this winter in the hopes that it might last him through the next as well. It’s not really meant to be a snow jacket— nothing he has is— but it’s loose enough that he can layer one of the sweaters his grandma makes for him under it. Eliot gets him into two pairs of pants and a double layer of socks, and that’s literally the best he’s going to be able to do on that front. Eliot’s still got a pair of solid, sturdy boots, an investment he’d made when there were three parents sharing the work of keeping them well homed and resources were spread less thinly, but Teddy’s only got the soft canvas shoes both he and Quentin favor. In truth, even keeping those on him is a struggle half the time, wild barefoot child that he is, but Eliot pushes the issue now, along with a knitted hat and mittens from Ari’s cousin. </p>
<p>Teddy’s patience has just about run out by the time Eliot’s casting a general purpose waterproofing spell on his clothes— it’s really meant to protect carpets and blankets from possible spills, probably won’t stand up to the kind of direct abuse that is playing in the snow, but it’s the best he can summon to mind this early in the morning. The sun is barely breaking over the clearing when they barrel out into the snow, not light and fluffy at all but thick, dense layers of deep cakey snow that comes up to Teddy’s waist. </p>
<p>“There’s so much!” He yells, delighted, then flings himself belly down into the snow, so, like... good luck on those waterproofing spells, probably. </p>
<p>“There sure is,” Eliot agrees, pushing through until he can look down at the little boy squirming around happily in the thick snow. Teddy grins up at him, delighted, but clearly having absolutely no idea <em>how</em> to actually play in the snow besides squirming around in it like a fish. “Tell you what, bud, want to help me make a snowman?”</p>
<p><em>Do you want to build a snowman, </em>sing-songs Eliot’s traitor brain, but he bats it aside. No song from that movie that doesn’t involve Idina deserves his time. Teddy sits up to look at him, head tilted quizzically. “We can make a man out of snow?”</p>
<p>It’s such a delightfully Fillorian obfuscation; it puts Eliot in mind of Arielle and— strangely— of <em>Fen</em>, with their tendency towards literal interpretation. In some ways, Teddy’s a child of two worlds, but his Fillorian eccentricities never fail to make Eliot laugh. He’s laughing now, holding out his hands so he can pull Teddy up out of the snow. “Well, it probably won’t look much like a man. But it’s an Earth thing— it’s fun, you’ll see.”</p>
<p>“Earth thing like Christmas?” Teddy asks, jumping a little in the snow because his little body can’t contain all his excitement. “Papa, it’s Christmas! Are we having Christmas? Is that why there’s so much snow?”</p>
<p>Which— okay, probably there’s so much snow simply to fuck with the current High King. This kind of insanity never happens when there’s no sitting Children of Earth at Whitespire. But that is emphatically <em>not Eliot’s problem</em> anymore. He doesn’t have to be concerned with how this much snow is going to destroy the planet or whatever— all Eliot has to do is entertain his kid. Wild, really, how much better suited he is to fatherhood than kingship. He’d never have guessed that one, not in a million years.</p>
<p>“Sure,” he says, a helpless grin growing on his face as he reaches out to adjust Teddy’s knitted cap, settling it back onto his head. “We’ll have a Christmas this year.”</p>
<p>The process of snowman making is— well, wetter and colder than it is in Eliot’s memory, but Teddy’s into it. He watches Eliot pack snow with a furrowed brow of earnest concentration, and then gets so excited to see that rolling the ball around actually results in it getting bigger that he accidentally crushes it a little. Last year, that would have resulted in a tearful meltdown, but for better or worse, seven year old Teddy is much more inclined to believing Eliot when he says that things are okay and can be restarted. </p>
<p>So they gleefully push snowballs around the yard for a while, getting a pretty sizable base set up near the ladder. The second ball Eliot floats up into place with telekinesis, but the third is light enough for Teddy to lift, and so Eliot lifts Teddy, and Teddy puts the head up into place.</p>
<p>“Wow,” Teddy says, as they stand back to admire their handiwork. Eliot looks down at him, almost laughing again when he sees Teddy standing with his hands on his hips like he means business, the same way Quentin does. He’s grinning when he looks up at Eliot, missing teeth evident, and says in a tone of sincere delight, “I have bad news for you, Papa, but it looks nothing like a man.”</p>
<p>“No, it doesn’t, does it,” Eliot agrees, reaching down to scuff the top of Teddy’s head, cup his palm against the kids skull and bring him in close until his shoulder bumps against Eliot’s leg. “Might help if we give him some arms and a face though. C’mon, let's dig around and see what we can find.”</p>
<p>The snowman has acquired eyes made of rocks, and arms broken off some nearby trees by the time the cottage door swings open. Quentin still looks a little sleepy, when Eliot glances over, but he’s wearing a sweater and a jacket and the thickest pants he has, hair still sliding out of the braid Eliot had helped weave last night. He follows the path of one of the snowballs over to them, arms around his waist against the cold but the look on his face is warm, that practically painful fondness that almost makes Eliot flinch— almost. He’s getting better about letting himself thaw a bit in the warmth of Quentin’s gaze.</p>
<p>“Hey, Dad! Look, we made a man from snow!” Teddy exclaims, emerging from rooting around in an empty garden bed. </p>
<p>“I can see that,” Quentin agrees, nodding at the snowman, who comes up to about the center of Eliot’s chest, but is actually, hilariously, much closer to Quentin’s height. “He looks great. I actually brought— I thought, like, your friend could use some accessories.” Pulling from the pockets of his coat, Quentin unearths an old scarf which they’d been using to plug the frame in their bedroom window, and the dried up leaf-crown Teddy had worn at the harvest fest. “Just so he’s not naked, you know.”</p>
<p>“Perfect,” Eliot agrees, and there’s already a smile on his face as he leans down to kiss Quentin a soft hello, warm and sweet and gentle, their noses brushing.</p>
<p>“Your nose is cold,” Quentin informs him, but it’s not stopping him from rubbing his own against it.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ve been out in the snow for two hours so you could sleep in,” Eliot points out, watching the smile lines write themselves on the corners of Quentin’s eyes and at the edges of his mouth when he grins. </p>
<p>“Dad,” Teddy cuts in, clearly impatient with no time for grown ups and their kissy nonsense, tugging a little on Quentin’s coat. “Can we put on the scarf?”</p>
<p>“Can we put on the scarf, <em>please</em>,” Quentin corrects, so second nature it’s almost absentminded, but he hands it down to Teddy nonetheless, then helps him climb the ladder to put the finishing touches on their snowman. </p>
<p>Eliot crouches down to be closer to kid height when they’re done, and Teddy runs over immediately, leaning into Eliot’s side to look up at the snowman together. “I think we did a pretty good job,” he says, because— yeah, actually, they did. It’s a damn good snowman. </p>
<p>“I think he’s great,” Teddy agrees, brimming with pride and the satisfaction of a job well done. </p>
<p>“Hey, Teddy,” Eliot stage whispers, conspiratorially, subtly packing a little ball of snow behind the cover of the snowman. “Wanna know another Earth snow custom?”</p>
<p>“Yeah! What is it?” </p>
<p>Grinning, Eliot whips the ball of snow towards Quentin, well aimed so it bounces off his side. “Snowball fight!”</p>
<p>Chaos descends upon them, then. Teddy’s a quick study, and maybe he doesn’t quite get the concept of making the snow into balls, but he’s certainly on board with the idea of <em>pelt Dad with snow</em>. Quentin yelps and scrambles for cover behind the table and, laughing, Eliot drags Ted to hide behind the daybed. A brutally efficient war of packed-snow hurling commences, culminating in a late-game betrayal when Teddy decides throwing snow across the distance is ridiculous when he’s got a parent to douse with it right next to him. </p>
<p>Eliot acts out the betrayal and murder scene with all the skill of his theater degree, flopping back to sprawl out in the chilly wet cushion of the snow. His defeat is summarily confirmed by Teddy scooping up a big double handful of snow to dump directly on Eliot’s face. </p>
<p>“Okay, that’s enough,” Quentin says, still laughing, appearing from nowhere to scoop Teddy up by his waist and lift him bodily away from Eliot. “I think we should all go warm up and have some breakfast, what do you think?”</p>
<p>“Pancakes!” Teddy yells, which— that's definitely a special occasion food, but, well.</p>
<p>“It’s Christmas,” Eliot explains to Quentin, sitting up in the snow to look up at them. “We decided earlier.”</p>
<p>“Oh it is, huh?” Quentin asks, looking over at Teddy, who nods eagerly. </p>
<p>“Are we doing both Christmas and Mid-Winter Festival this year?” </p>
<p>“I figured we could split it,” Eliot says, giving Quentin a weighted look and shrug, thinking specifically of the little pile of accumulated gifts they’ve been stashing under the bed in their bedroom. “Who knows if we’ll even be able to get into town or if they’re going to manage a whole festival in a couple days if this snow sticks around.”</p>
<p>“Guess that’s true,” Quentin confirms, worried frown turning out in the direction of the orchard. “You think everyone’s okay up at the big house?”</p>
<p>“I’m sure they are,” Eliot promises, pushing to his feet. One of his knees protests the movement, creaking with the cold, because being over thirty is just fucking <em>awesome</em>. But Quentin’s smiling up at him, that small little real smile that still makes Eliot’s belly warm, and all his aches and pains disappear from his mind as he leans in to brush a kiss against Quentin’s cheek. “C’mon, let’s have a snow day,” he murmurs, rubbing an affectionate palm against Teddy’s back as he cranes around Quentin to look at their snowman. “Not like we'd be able to work on the puzzle anyway.”</p>
<p>“I guess not,” Quentin admits, looking a little ruefully amused. “How are we going to manifest a holiday we didn’t plan for?”</p>
<p>“Are you doubting me?” Eliot scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “I never fail to rise to the occasion.”</p>
<p>“That’s certainly true,” Quentin agrees, layered with enough innuendo to make Eliot grin, and looks down at Teddy, pushing his cap off to ruffle his hair. “Pancakes, huh?”</p>
<p>“Yes, please!” And well, that is certainly too polite to say no to. </p>
<p>Quentin must have gotten the fire going before he came out, because the cottage is warm and dry when they step inside. Eliot’s waterproof charm was no match for the snowball fight, so there’s a general period of stripping out of wet clothes and getting into warmer, dry ones. Eliot leaves Quentin to kid wrangle, moving out into the main room of the cottage to poke through the precious stores of winter foods. There’s a side of bacon he can justify breaking out if he also uses it in stew tonight, and a special jar of plum jam they’d been saving for the Mid-Winter Festival— might as well use it now. The cinnamon and clove flavors are much more Earth-Christmas than they are Mid-Winter Festival, anyway, the cuisine of which usually revolves almost entirely around roasted meats. </p>
<p>For the pancakes, he carefully measures out bits of their current sourdough starter. Oil’s hard to come by, in the winter, harder than butter at least, so he carefully melts a pad of butter in a skillet set on the baking shelf over the fire, using a charm to rapidly cool it enough that it won’t kill the yeast in the starter and starts mixing it all together: milk, sugar, flower, butter, starter. Five ingredients that make up so many of the best things they eat. </p>
<p>He fries off half the bacon first, putting the rest to chill in the charmed cupboard which serves as their makeshift refrigerator. The rendered fat he carefully pours into a ceramic pot, perfect to fry in later, and stretching out their meager supplies of oil even longer. Cooking over an open flame had certainly been a learning curve, but Eliot’s well used to it now, well enough that by the time Quentin and Teddy emerge he’s got two complete big, fluffy pancakes cooling down for Teddy already and two more sizzling away in the skillet on the baking sheet.</p>
<p>“Smells great!” Teddy informs him, climbing up to kneel on his chair at the table to peer at his pancakes. “Do you think the snowman wants any?”</p>
<p>“I don’t think he can eat them, buddy,” Quentin offers, already beginning the process of making the strong, dark tea which was the closest Fillory could give them to coffee, moving around Eliot with the comfort of years of practiced rhythm. “Do you think we should give him a name instead?”</p>
<p>The name of the snowman remains a topic of high energy debate throughout the meal. They eat tangy skillet cakes smeared with spiced plum jam, and salty bacon, drinking their cups of tea; it’s simple food but wholly delicious, hearty and filling. Even if they’ll be cleaning sticky hand prints off the table afterwards, Teddy’s delight is worth it. Eliot sits back, earthenware cup of tea in hand, and watches Quentin and Teddy talk. How alike they are, with their excitement and their love of stories, and how different they are in temperament. Eliot doubts Quentin was ever a gregariously happy child in the way Teddy is, even two years out from his mother’s death. Watching them together is honestly one of the highlights of Eliot’s life.</p>
<p>The snowman is christened Edgar by the time their brunch is done, named such for Edgar The Unclean who happens to be Teddy’s favorite Fillorian High King, and Teddy manages to entertain himself long enough to let them clean up. But soon after he’s climbing up into his dad’s lap, looking expectantly at Eliot, who has apparently been named master of ceremonies for this, their Fillorian Christmas. “What other Christmas stuff is there?” he asks, bouncing a little with excitement, Quentin’s arm held carefully around his waist to keep him secure.</p>
<p>“Any ideas?” Eliot asks ruefully, looking at Quentin with a little half shrug. “My Christmases growing up were very focused on going to church.”</p>
<p>Quentin gives a thoughtful hum, looking around the cottage. “Well, we could make some decorations? We have paper for the mosaic— we can always get more.”</p>
<p>“What kind of decorations?” Teddy asks, eyes wide, and Eliot grins.</p>
<p>“Well paper snowflakes are always a classic.”</p>
<p>So they settle in for a midday craft session, showing Teddy different ways to fold the paper to get different shapes. Safety scissors don’t exist in Fillory, of course, but they make do, Quentin helping Teddy draw out the shapes he wants cut out with chalk and passing it over to Eliot to carefully cut out with a pocket knife. On the whole the snowflakes are a little more choppy than the perfectionist in Eliot would really like, but Teddy is delighted with them, and even more delighted to find places around the cottage to put them. </p>
<p>He’s drooping a little by the time the snowflakes are done, sitting curled up on one of the pillows on the sitting bench by the fire.</p>
<p>“Sleepy?” Quentin asks, softly, sitting down next to Teddy how makes a face at him. “Want to take a nap?”</p>
<p>“<em>No,</em> I’m not a <em>baby</em>,” he scoffs, clearly having outgrown such things as afternoon sleepies. </p>
<p>“Right, of course,” Quentin agrees, catching Eliot’s eye with a knowing smile. “What if Papa sings us some Christmas songs, huh?”</p>
<p>“Oh, gee, thanks,” Eliot says dryly. “Definitely haven’t practiced any of those in about 15 years.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, Christmas songs!” Teddy chimes in, sitting up eagerly and turning his big puppy eyes at Eliot. “Please, Papa?”</p>
<p>And, really, what is Eliot supposed to say to that? <em>No?</em></p>
<p>Which is how he ends up sitting on the floor of the cottage, picking out Rudolph and Jingle Bells on the Fillorian lute. Playing always makes him think of Arielle, her sure fingers placing his on the strings as she taught him to play. He isn’t quite good enough to be intuitive, though, and eventually he sets the lute aside in favor of singing acapella. Songs half-remembered from shopping malls and coffee shops filter back to them here, in their little snow-covered cottage in the Fillorian wood. It should feel bizarrely out of place, Quentin warbling his way through Mariah Carey, but it’s actually... nice. </p>
<p>It’s been some time since Eliot felt homesickness for Earth. He’s built a life here through conscious effort, long before there were wives and children in the picture Eliot had taken it upon himself to make their lives livable. He learned to thatch roofs and learned to cook on open flame, set aside his gut-aversion to anything farm-related and settled in to grow them food. He was ready to call this cottage home long before Quentin arrived at that place, when the only things he really missed about Earth, <em>really</em> missed in a way that was more substantial than, ‘<em>gee, it would be nice to get Taco Bell</em>’,were the people.</p>
<p>And yet, sitting and singing Deck the Halls and Silent Night with Quentin and Teddy, Eliot feels closer to Earth than he has in a long time. He can imagine, just for a second, taking Teddy sledding on bright plastic sleds, or walking through a mall with him, having to drag him past a toy store full of mass-produced plastic and cloth while he wheedled for gifts that were already stashed in a closet at home. It’s a very idealized version of childhood, the kind Eliot used to dream of having when he himself was a boy— imagining that life was like a movie, like <em>It’s A Wonderful Life</em>, and the grown ups would have a change of heart and everything would suddenly be different, would be better. </p>
<p>Sitting watching Teddy crawl over Quentin, excitedly asking to hear the reindeer song again, it’s hard to imagine things being much better than they are. It’s hard to imagine <em>any</em> of the good in Eliot’s life existing on Earth.</p>
<p>Lucky for him, then, that they’re here in this little bubble, forever shackled to this undoable task. </p>
<p>They make stew for dinner, cooking potatoes and Fillorian leeks (which are sweeter than you’d expect, with a bite of heat at the end) with the remainder of the bacon. Quentin and Teddy make rolls together while Eliot tends the stew, which mostly means that Quentin makes rolls and Teddy gets flour all over himself and his father and the table and the floor and— inexplicably— the mantle above the fire. But the smells of yeast and bacon and rich vegetable broth fill the house, and maybe it doesn’t smell like Christmas usually would, but it smells like home.</p>
<p>“What else do you do on Christmas?” Teddy asks, once their dinner dishes are cleared away, settling in Eliot’s lap by the fire. </p>
<p>“Well, usually there’s presents from Santa,” Quentin explains, eyes twinkling, and absurdly Eliot wants to make him put on a red puffy suit, just to laugh at him. “Santa doesn’t come to Fillory, though, so maybe you could have a couple of your Mid-Winter Festival presents a few days early.”</p>
<p>“Nah, he wouldn’t want that,” Eliot says, feigned skepticism while Teddy cheers, then twists around to look at him with a look of great betrayal.</p>
<p>“I would, too!” </p>
<p>“Ah, well there’s me corrected,” Eliot says to Quentin, fondness bubbling in his chest as he hugs around Teddy’s waist, counteracting his squirming. “Teddy wants presents, Dad.”</p>
<p>“I figured he might,” Quentin agrees, amused. Teddy’s practically vibrating on Eliot’s lap as Quentin disappears into the bedroom, returning with two little parcels wrapped with cloth and twine. Leveling a serious look at Teddy, he says, “Now you understand this means you’re going to get less later, right? No hurt feelings?”</p>
<p>“No, I get it,” Teddy promises, matching Quentin stroke for stroke in his earnestness, eyes wide in his serious little face. Eliot loves them both so damn much, he has no idea what to do with it besides drop a kiss down on top of Teddy’s head.</p>
<p>The first little parcel is one of the more practical gifts, containing a new shirt and pair of pants. The logic behind this being one of the early gifts is immediately evident to Eliot, because it means Teddy will be able to wear his new clothes to the festival in the coming days. Combined with whatever new sweater his grandmother is likely to force upon him, it’ll be a whole new festival ensemble. Teddy accepts the gift with all the excitement of a child who gets new things so rarely, insisting that he be allowed to put on the new shirt immediately before their little celebration continues. It’s just big enough that the sleeves hang past his wrist, bought larger to grow into, but he struts around the living space proudly showing off his new shirt. </p>
<p>“He gets this from you,” Quentin mutters, quiet enough that Teddy won’t hear it, but warm, voice full of sweetness.</p>
<p>“As he does all his best qualities,” Eliot agrees, looping his arm around Quentin’s shoulder in a sideways hug. </p>
<p>The second parcel Eliot recognizes as one of their homemade gifts, one of a handful of toys constructed with care and magic. This particular one featured a carved wooden board, similar to a mancala board but multi-level in the Fillorian style, collapsing down to store away and containing 50 polished smooth black and white stones. Teddy’s eyes light up when he pulls off the cloth, nearly sending all the stones scattering in his excitement.</p>
<p>“Oh, oh, this is like Rizzy’s!”</p>
<p>“Yeah, your aunt mentioned how much fun you guys had last time you went over to visit,” Quentin says, fondly, brushing his fingers affectionately though his son’s hair. “So Papa carved you your own board. Now you can play here when your cousins come to visit, or with some of your friends from the village.”</p>
<p>Teddy spins over towards Eliot, turning that megawatt smile on him instead. “Thanks, Papa!”</p>
<p>“You’re welcome, kid,” Eliot says gently, trying to bury a weird sense of discomfort that he can’t quite place. He gets that feeling less, now, than he used to— best not to think about it too much.</p>
<p>“Want to teach us how to play?” Quentin prompts, a suggestion that Teddy latches on to eagerly. </p>
<p>They end up sitting on the hearth in front of the fire, Teddy sitting in Quentin’s lap and directing the troops as the two grownups face off against each other. He’s bossy and takes no sides, helping them both steal pieces in equal measure, but he’s clearly having a great time and Quentin hasn’t stopped smiling for 15 whole minutes, and Eliot...</p>
<p>Eliot just wants to freeze this moment in a stasis charm: this whole day, how wonderful it feels to be so content, so happy, to belong so thoroughly somewhere. If only he could carve out a piece of it to revisit later, when Teddy’s too old to want to spend a day hanging out with his dads or when the pressure of the relentless undoable task sends him and Quentin to bickering with each other. Already it seems impossibly perfect, even as the final hours of it unfold around them. </p>
<p>Teddy starts to get cranky as he gets tired, of course, so maybe it’s not some surreal magical sheen on the day. Maybe it’s just Eliot, going soft here in his old age. They lure him to bed with the promise of Christmas stories. Quentin limps his way through a retelling of The Grinch That Stole Christmas, almost entirely lacking in the rhymes scheme which was presumably included in the original tellingly before switching to a story almost surely invented on the spot recounting the exploits of a gingerbread man. Luckily, Teddy drifts off to sleep in the middle of <em>that</em> winding tale.</p>
<p>“I think we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel on how much Christmas we can provide with no notice,” Quentin says in a low voice once they’ve shut the door on the sleeping boy. “If he wants to do this next year, we’re going to have to prepare in advance.”</p>
<p>“Oh, he’s going to want to do it next year.” Quentin looks up at him, eyes twinkling— or maybe that’s just the firelight. “Do you really think he’s going to let us <em>walk back</em> on a party?”</p>
<p>“Probably not,” Quentin agrees, pacing into the room, stretching his arms up over his head as he moves over to the fire. The orange flicker of firelight makes his skin glow a lovely golden color; Quentin by firelight is always the one of most beautiful sights Eliot’s ever seen. </p>
<p>Following after him, Eliot walks up until he’s standing behind Quentin, hands settling on the solid shape of his ribs under his loose wrap shirt. “So do you want your present tonight?” Eliot asks, sliding his arms around Quentin’s waist, rubbing palms across the plane of Quentin’s stomach as he pulls him back into the curve of his body. Humming happily, Eliot noses into nuzzle against the shell of Quentin’s ear, breathing in the familiar smell of him. </p>
<p>“Is that an innuendo? Are you asking me to unwrap your package?”</p>
<p>Eliot snorts out a laugh, nipping sharply at the shell of Quentin’s ear. “I’ll give you <em>that</em> present anytime you want.”</p>
<p>“Mm, yeah you will.” </p>
<p>He’s ridiculous, Quentin’s utterly ridiculous, Eliot’s so— fucking hopelessly in love with him. He’s hopeless when Quentin spins around in his arms, helpless when Quentin pushes up onto his tiptoes, helpless as Quentin rubs their noses together, teasing until Eliot gives him what he wants; cups his palms around the base of Quentin’s skull and kisses him. It’s like slipping into a hot bath, inviting and familiar and warm. Hundreds of kisses between them in the last fifteen years, and it still feels impossibly good, how eager Quentin is, how much he loves being kissed. </p>
<p>But— he’d had a point, something he was trying to ask. With a monumental effort, he drags himself away from Quentin’s sweet mouth, the hot slick sound of it making him shiver. “I did want to know if you wanted your present tonight.”</p>
<p>Quentin raises an eyebrow quizzically. “Really? Wasn’t all of this more for him than for us?”</p>
<p>Which, yeah, sure. “Probably should be,” Eliot agrees, looking away from Quentin’s eager open face, down at where his wrap shirt closes just under the dip between his collarbones. “Pretty sad that I keep thinking this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had, huh?”</p>
<p>Even without watching, he can tell Quentin’s face is going soft, his big brown eyes coloring with understanding. But by the time he looks up, all he sees in Quentin’s eyes is love. “Well, that’s even more reason to do it again next year, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>Eliot has no idea what to do with that kind of earnestness, that kindness. So he kisses Quentin instead of saying anything. It seems like a safer bet, and Quentin melts against him, yielding and sweet. </p>
<p>“Can we—” Quentin gasps, and Eliot’s already humming in agreement, because yes, god, yes, whatever he wants, anything— but Quentin snickers, pushing against Eliot’s chest a little until he backs off. “Can we move away from the hearth before my ass catches on fire?”</p>
<p>It’s ridiculous, absurd, and Eliot’s laughing, dropping his face down against Quentin’s shoulder and sliding his hands back to cup protectively over Quentin’s ass. It is, in fact, quite warm. “C’mon,” he murmurs, nuzzling his face in against Quentin’s neck, relishing in the closeness, the feel of him, of his skin. “Let’s go to bed, sweetheart.”</p>
<p>Anticipation simmers under Eliot’s skin, warm and sparkly, a hunger that isn’t urgent. Following Quentin into the bedroom, there’s no worry that the hunger won’t be satiated; it’s been a long time now since the want that sits low in Eliot’s belly has gone unanswered. It’s different, the lack of urgency in this wanting, than what a night of lustful pursuit would have meant in his youth, but he’s found it to be to his taste. There’s pleasure in knowing he’s wanted, and wanting in return. </p>
<p>That heat stokes in him as Quentin sets the latch on the bedroom door— not enough to really deter Teddy, as this morning can attest, but enough to slow him down long enough for them to get pants on if necessary. Then it’s just the two of them, with space and privacy and time, in their warm little home covered in a still blanket of snow, watching each other by the light of candles and a lamp enchanted to be ever-burning. The anticipation is palpable, and just somehow Eliot’s still not really prepared for the way Quentin sinks to his knees at the of the bed, reaching out to grab Eliot’s hips with strong hands and reel him in.</p>
<p>“Oh—<em> fuck</em>,” Eliot gets out, and then laughs, startled, clutching out to find purchase on Quentin’s hair as Quentin nuzzles at the front of his pants, rubbing his face against Eliot’s soft dick through the material of his trousers. It sends a wave of heat cresting down Eliot’s front, a sweet jolt of pleasure sparking in the base of his dick, looking down into his partner’s face, written clearly with open want. “You’re certainly eager tonight.”</p>
<p>“I was promised a package to unwrap.” He can’t quite get through the words with a straight face, a twitch curling at the corner of his mouth, but he’s reaching out and cupping a sure, steady palm under Eliot’s balls. It does a lot to offset the ridiculousness of the situation, when blood is vacating Eliot’s brain post haste. </p>
<p>“Somehow I wasn’t thinking you’d be doing that with your <em>teeth—</em>” </p>
<p>“Oh, I’m not,” Quentin says, matter of factly, and it’s true, he’s reaching for the ties of Eliot’s trousers with his clever dexterous hands as he speaks. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not going in my mouth <em>after</em>.”</p>
<p>Even with the nuzzling and light groping, Eliot’s still pretty soft by the time Quentin gets his pants down, because that’s just how life goes when you’re this much closer to 40 than you are to 20. But Eliot can’t bring himself to mourn his days of youthfully easy erections too much, as he sits on the edge of the bed with Quentin down on his knees between Eliot’s spread thighs, dancing his sweet tongue out against Eliot’s cock, hot and wet and velvet-soft. </p>
<p>“God, Q,” Eliot sighs out, happily, leaning back on a single hand so he can get the other tangled up in Quentin’s hair, pulling tight near the scalp in the way that makes Quentin’s eyes roll back in his head. “You’re so good to me.”</p>
<p>“Uh huh,” Quentin agrees, amusement jangling along his voice, but he’s flicking his tongue out so Eliot can see it, and looking up through his <em>ridiculously</em> beautiful eyelashes, and— Eliot’s being played like a fiddle; okay, he’s very well aware of that. But Quentin looks so damn good, and his mouth is so perfect, and he’s there, Eliot’s for the taking.</p>
<p>Eliot’s breath escapes in a shudder as Quentin slides his mouth down, easily, all the way to the base of Eliot’s cock, working the underside of the stiffening shaft with his tongue. Pleasure throbs in Eliot’s groin, hot and heavy between his legs, sending surges of arousal coursing through him, nipples tightening to hard, achy little points. “Baby,” Eliot murmurs, scratching his fingernails across Quentin’s scalp. “Yeah, get me hard. Fuck, you’re so good at it, you and that sweet little mouth, don’t know how I ever get any work done when I could be inside you instead.”</p>
<p>Quentin whines a little, pulling off to lick his tongue out against the tip of Eliot’s cock. He laps right against the slit, tongue pushing in just a bit, enough to send a pulse of sharp sensation through Eliot’s gut, making him grunt. “Yeah, get inside me,” Quentin murmurs quickly, like he can’t stand to have his mouth off Eliot long enough to get the words out.</p>
<p>“I am inside you, sweet boy,” Eliot murmurs, as his cock sinks back into Quentin’s mouth. Sitting up enough to free his other hand, Eliot reaches out to cup Quentin’s jaw, pushing his thumb against the side of Quentin’s cheek. Carefully, he flexes his hips ups up, thrusting just a little, just enough so he can feel his own cock move where he’s pressing against Quentin’s face. “Can’t you feel me moving in you?”</p>
<p>It works like a charm, Quentin moaning through his mouthful and going a little lax against Eliot’s thigh, like a puppet with his strings cut. Trusting himself, somehow, miraculously, to Eliot’s guiding hands. He’s all big needy eyes, looking up at Eliot from the floor, and a familiar wave of protectiveness and affection is growing behind Eliot’s breastbone in response. “What do you need?” he asks, softly, rubbing his thumb tenderly against the stretched-tight skin at the corner of Quentin’s mouth where it’s pried open around Eliot’s thick, hard cock. Fuck, he’s so beautiful. “Where do you need me, huh?”</p>
<p>Quentin has to pull off to answer, and his cheeks are stained red in the process, embarrassed and hot with it. “In my ass,” he gasps out, slurring a little, and fuck— his <em>mouth</em>. All pinked up and wet, just <em>looking</em> at is ends a wave of excited heat through Eliot’s dumb animal brain. Quentin’s soft pink tongue darts out to lick across his lower lip, and it triggers a physical jolt of arousal so strong that Eliot has to reach down and grip his own dick in response. Quentin’s eyes follow the movement, landing hot and hungry on Eliot’s fist gripping his own dick, and he actually whines a little which, is just <em>fucking hot</em>.</p>
<p>How can it still be this hot, after this long?</p>
<p>“Want this in your ass?” he teases, working his fist up in a stroke from root to tip, helped along with the slick of Quentin’s spit. The motion feels good, but somehow the pressure of Quentin’s gaze feels even better. “Do you want it enough to put on a little show for me?”</p>
<p>“<em>Eliot</em>,” Quentin whines, half petulant, half embarrassed, and Eliot grins. </p>
<p>“C’mon, get up in my lap and finger yourself for me, and I’ll give you whatever you want.” </p>
<p>It requires some readjustment, but that’s as good an excuse as any to get the rest of their clothes off. It’s a little cold in the room, chill from the snowy exterior seeping inside, so they stop long enough to cast a general atmospheric warming spell that will last for an hour or two, and to kiss a bit. That part isn’t part of the plan, necessarily, but casting together sends sparkles of heat along Eliot’s consciousness, like bits of their minds are brushing together, and that’s just— the kind of thing you have to kiss about, really.</p>
<p>Eventually, though, Eliot settles back against the head of the bed, cock in hand, while Quentin straddles his thighs, facing down the bed and bends at the waist, bracing his left hand on the bed so he can reach the right back, and—</p>
<p>“Slow,” Eliot cuts in, when Quentin moves to immediately shove two fingers up his own ass. “‘C’mon, be good to yourself, baby. Don’t rush.”</p>
<p>“Fuck you,” Quentin grumbles out, but he does as instructed, pulling back to simple rub around the rim, spreading magical slick against his skin, letting Eliot enjoy the view. And <em>what a fucking view</em> it is, honestly, strong thick thighs and juicy peach of an ass, all covered in a light coating of dark hair. Cheeks spread wide like this, Eliot can see the tender pink whorl of Quentin’s hole, winking as he bares back on his own fingers. Pushing in, carving out space inside of him for Eliot too just—</p>
<p>Fit his whole dick right in there, in that tiny little hole.</p>
<p>Goddamn. His fucking mouth is watering. “How’s it feel?” Eliot asks, casually, working the shaft of his dick in a couple long, slow, languorous pulls, watching Quentin’s middle finger sink into the joint.</p>
<p>“Good,” Quentin sighs, back moving in a wave as he rides back on his own finger. The fading black ink of his tattoo stands out against his pale skin, moving with the ripple of his muscles as he works himself open. “But it’s better when it’s you.”</p>
<p>“Aww, you’re sweet.” And Eliot could, is the thing, he could reach out and fit a finger right in there next to Quentin’s, stretch him on one of Eliot’s own fingers — the proximity is delicious, itself a tease. “Another, now, baby, come on. Get another finger up in there.”</p>
<p>Quentin doesn't whine or complain this time, just does as instructed, eagerly folding another finger in to sink inside of himself. The urge to touch builds slowly in Eliot, and he abates it slightly by petting his free hand along the back of Quentin’s thigh, raising goosebumps in its wake. Quentin hisses out, thrusting back to bump into Eliot’s hand, and Eliot chuckles, sliding his palm up to cup one delicious ass cheek. </p>
<p>“Eliot. <em>Please</em>.”</p>
<p>“You need at least one more,” Eliot says, with a steadiness he most definitely does not feel. “C’mon, one more and then I’ll fuck you any way you want.” Which, as incentives go, that seems to be a pretty effective one. A simple hiss of breath, and then Quentin’s three fingers in and baring back, riding his own hand in tiny little rolls of his hips. Just watching him makes Eliot <em>ache</em> to be inside, and he’s helpless to stop touching, rubbing the palm of his hand up until he’s petting over Quentin’s lower back, the sweet little dimples above his ass. </p>
<p>“Are you gonna fuck me,” Quentin gasps, a little bit of bite back in his voice. “Or should I get myself off over here?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I’m gonna fuck you.” Affection is thick in Eliot’s voice, even he can hear it, but it sends Quentin sighing, the tension in his back melting out as he relaxes under Eliot’s hands. “How do you want it, baby?”</p>
<p>“I want— to fucking <em>kiss you</em>. I want to see your face.” Quentin laughs, grinding his burning face against the blankets, still three fingers deep. “Does that make me old and boring?”</p>
<p>“Never,” Eliot promises, more weight in the word than he’d really intended, but it’s true. Nothing about this is boring to him. It’s honestly a little closer to terrifying, still, but never boring. “Come up here.”</p>
<p>They end up on their sides, one of Quentin’s legs pulled up around Eliot’s ribs. Though he might not be as flexible as he’d been at 26, Quentin’s still pretty bendy, and Eliot’s patient, willing to help him stretch into a position. </p>
<p>“Remember when I could just put my legs on your shoulders?” Quentin murmurs breathing through the stretch as Eliot rubs his palm into the tight muscle on the back of Quentin’s leg. “Like it was no big fucking deal that I was bending myself in half. Those were the days.”</p>
<p>“You’re still a spry young thing,” Eliot murmurs, nearly nose to nose with Quentin in this position. He’s got to steer his dick with his right hand, which is always a little weird, left arm under Quentin’s head and supporting Eliot’s own weight. But he gets the positioning right after a couple attempts, then he’s sinking inside in a slow, almost effortless slide. </p>
<p>“Oh, <em>god</em>, El,” Quentin moans, his own top arm flying out to grip at Eliot’s hip, his ass, holding on to him desperately as they breathe through the slide together. “Fuck, you feel <em>huge</em> like this.”</p>
<p>“Are you—” Eliot breaks off with a grunt, hips thrusting involuntarily on a wave of pleasure, “are you saying it’s not always huge? Because I’m a little offended.”</p>
<p>“Just shut up,” Quentin laughs, and when Eliot pries his eyes open, Quentin’s smiling, all dimples and laugh lines on his lovely, dear face, “and fuck me, okay?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I can do that.” </p>
<p>It’s hard to get deep like this, and it’s not really the right angle to get Quentin’s prostate, either, but they’re so close together that Quentin’s cock drags against Eliot’s stomach on every thrust. The heat of it is so delicious, like pleasure is melting through Eliot’s whole body in molten waves, each deep rock of his hips drawing up sweat to prickle across his scalp, down his chest.</p>
<p>“<em>El</em>—” Quentin gasps, voice high and <em>wrecked</em>, and Eliot just— can’t stop looking at him, the hunger on his face, the beautiful way his brows twist up when he’s feeling good. Unthinking, Eliot reaches up to catch the back of Q’s neck with his palm, grip going tight against his nape as Quentin— <em>moans</em>. Goes, if possible, looser, melts more into Eliot’s arms. </p>
<p>“Feeling good?” Eliot murmurs, quiet and soft because they’re so close he’s speaking the words right into Quentin’s open, needy mouth. “Yeah, you are. Aren’t you?”</p>
<p>“<em>Yes—</em>”</p>
<p>“Fucking love having my cock in your ass?”</p>
<p>“I <em>do</em>, I love it so much,” Quentin sobs, straining against Eliot hold on his neck enough to push in, mouth at Eliot’s lip, honestly more just hapless licking than an actual kiss, but it’s so <em>fucking hot</em>. It’s hot to see Quentin like this, to have him like this, loose and pliant, desperate, hand gripping at Eliot’s ribs and ass gripping at his cock. “I love it, I love it, I love you so much, El.”</p>
<p>The rush of orgasm hits him out of nowhere, completely blindsided. He’d be embarrassed, except he’s too busy emptying out his entire brain and heart through his dick, pleasure pulling tight inside him and breaking like a whip-snap. Quentin clutches him through it, kissing at Eliot’s slack, open mouth and murmuring words that don’t even filter into Eliot’s brain, simply remaining a texture of safety and comfort surrounding him. </p>
<p>“Fuck,” Eliot breathes out, losening his fingers from their tense grip on Quentin’s neck. Quentin whines, just softly, just the smallest sound under his breath, but it’s enough to send a painful jolt of arousal down to Eliot’s dick, still buried in him but softening now. Swallowing around his suddenly dry tongue, Eliot leans in to kiss back, kiss at Quentin’s hot open mouth. “What do you want, sweetheart? How do you want to come?”</p>
<p>“Like this, can we just—” Quentin breaks off, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he rocks a little, dragging his stiff cock against Eliot’s belly. “Can I stay like this, and— can I have your fingers, maybe?”</p>
<p>“You can have whatever you need, baby.”</p>
<p>A bit of adjustment, Eliot pulling back to let his softening cock slip out and get his fingers in instead, and they’re off to the races. He’s back to working with his right hand, again, which is still not his strongest game, but luckily Quentin doesn’t seem to need much, just something to clench on while his hips flex, grinding hard and fast against Eliot’s stomach. Eliot can give him that and a bit more, fingers more dexterous, able to hook forward and chase at the swell of his prostate until Quentin’s eyes roll back in his head. He’s so fucking gorgeous, he feels <em>so good</em>, all hot and slick inside—</p>
<p>“So wet,” Eliot murmurs, straining his wrist to keep the angle as Quentin shudders. “That’s my come inside you making you all wet, isn’t it? All slicked up with me?”</p>
<p>That’s enough, apparently, to make Quentin come with a broken sound, ass going tight around Eliot’s fingers as he spurts across Eliot’s sweaty skin. Eliot gentles him through it, kissing at his lips and cheeks and chin, fingers still crooked inside until Quentin starts to wriggle a little, then letting them slip out. Feeling lazy and loose, Eliot starts the motions of a cleaning tut but gets distracted by Quentin kissing him, long and slow and deep, again and again. </p>
<p>“We’re pretty good at that,” Quentin sighs, snuggling against Eliot’s chest, like he’s content to just go to sleep, naked and covered in cock. Eliot can understand that— he kind of wants that too. But forget regretting it in the morning, they’ll regret it in about 45 minutes, when it’s so cold in the room that they wake up shivering. They’ve been here way too long to keep making that mistake.</p>
<p>“We’ve had a lot of practice,” Eliot murmurs back, dropping his nose down until it’s buried in Quentin’s hair, breathing in his familiar smell. He allows himself a moment to linger, then pats gently at Quentin’s ass with his sticky hand. “C’mon, let’s get cleaned up.” Quentin groans, but allows Eliot to pull away and finish his cleaning tut.</p>
<p>Later, once they’ve pulled on sleep clothes and crawled under their pile of blankets, once Quentin’s spooned back into the curve of Eliot’s body like a particularly ornery personal space heater, once the candles are all blown out and sleep is coming for them, Eliot whispers out into the darkness. “It was a pretty good Christmas.”</p>
<p>Quentin hums a little, wriggling back into the hold of Eliot’s arm around him. “Yeah, it was.”</p>
<p>Eliot tightens his arm around Quentin’s waist, hesitating— still, always, the words stuck on his tongue, but— “You know I love you both, right?”</p>
<p>There’s a moment of silence, and then Quentin’s arm is pushing up over his, hand sliding down Eliot’s forearm to tangle their fingers together, pulling their joined hands up to his chest. “Yeah, of course we know.” </p>
<p>Heart in his throat, Eliot can only nod, nose against the back of Quentin’s head. There’s still a thick blanket snow outside, and tomorrow they’re going to have to figure out a way to clear off the mosaic and keep working. That’s the quest, pausable but never able to be stopped, not really, not for long. But for now, Eliot’s happy, body loose-limbed and achy from use, and mind full of warmth, like his own shrivelled heart has grown three sizes this day.</p>
<p>Content, he settles in for sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check me out on <a href="https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy">twitter</a> and <a href="https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>. Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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